It wasn’t a command; he didn’t have to do it. But she was watching him and suddenly he had to get it out, to let someone know that sometimes he felt as if he was disappearing, like he’d been conjured out of the air, a god that vanished if no one worshipped him, if no one saw him. And perhaps if he told her, this desperation, this agitation, would go away.
‘Ulysses died when he was fifteen,’ he said roughly. ‘Meningitis. It was very fast. One minute he had a headache, the next he was dead. I know all of this because my father would tell me about it over and over again, how my brother died and how quickly. How he blamed himself even though there was nothing they could do.’ His fingers closed on the stem of his wine glass so tightly it hurt. But the pain grounded him. ‘They told me a lot about my brother. What he was like and how loved he was. And how they had me to replace him, but I didn’t turn out the way they wanted me to be. They wanted me to be him and I wasn’t.’
She watched him, her topaz eyes glowing, no judgement in her face. ‘Go on,’ she said, as if she knew he hadn’t finished, and that there was more, so much more to say.
So he did.
‘Nothing I did was good enough. My very existence was like a slap in the face to them. Ulysses liked to shoot and hunt and fish with my father, while I liked to read books and look things up on the internet and play computer games. They had me because they thought I would heal the grief in their hearts. But I didn’t. I only made it worse.’ For some reason all his muscles had started to relax. Even though remembering all of this and uttering it was painful. But the warmth of her body pressing gently against him, the scent of her winding around him, made it easier somehow. ‘My mother left my father eventually. She couldn’t stand the grief. Couldn’t stand being in this house where memories of Ulysses were. My father didn’t want to leave for the same reason. So they separated. My mother didn’t even look at me, didn’t even say goodbye. She walked right past me as if I weren’t even there. I was five.’
Willow’s body pressed harder against him, her golden-eyed gaze intent. She didn’t speak and she didn’t look away, and neither did he.
‘Dad completely ignored me,’ he went on. ‘I tried to make him proud—I was desperate to, you understand. But trying to be what my father wanted only made it more apparent how unlike Ulysses I was. So I worked hard at school, thinking that getting good marks and awards would make him see my worth. Make him see me. But they meant nothing to him. He didn’t care about marks or awards, or how his son had graduated top of his class. I wasn’t Ulysses and that was all that mattered to him.’
Willow’s hands spread out on his knees, her fingers pressing down on him as if she knew instinctively that was what he needed; some sensation to make him feel as if he was part of the world. ‘So what did you do?’
He picked up his wine glass and drank, tasting nothing, remembering the rage that had burned inside him. ‘I got an acceptance from Oxford University years earlier than I should have and I thought that finally this might actually get him to take notice of the son that was right in front of him and not the one who was dead. But he looked at the letter and didn’t say a word.’ The anger inside him, hot all this time, leapt up again. ‘He didn’t care. So I yelled at him, told him that he had to stop living in the past, that he had to let Ulysses go. That he had a son right in front of him who was alive and who needed him...’ Achilles stopped abruptly, gritting his teeth, hating the memory of how vulnerable he’d been in that moment and how his father had cut him off at the knees. ‘But Papa said he had nothing to give to me, that Ulysses had taken it all. And that’s when I realised how little I mattered to him. To either of them. They couldn’t let him go. My dead brother was more important to them than I was.’
Willow’s fingers abruptly dug into his knee, an expression of pain and sorrow flickering over her features. But again, she didn’t speak, leaving him space to talk.
‘So I left,’ he went on, taking another sip of wine. ‘I left my father to his grief, because that was better than constantly hoping he would change. That he’d miraculously find he had some love left to give me after all. So I went to Greece and set about making sure that the world knew who I was, that I was alive and Ulysses was dead. And that everyone would have to deal with it.’ Which was what he’d done. He’d made the world acknowledge him, forced it to notice that he existed, and notice it had. Every woman he bedded and every company he helped make a success made him more real.
Willow didn’t speak, but he could see the gleam of tears in her eyes, and instantly his heart contracted.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said roughly. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry. That’s not what—’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Keep going. It doesn’t matter. I’m just sad for you and that’s okay.’
Had anyone felt sad for him? Had anyone beyond his teachers noticed the lonely, ignored little boy he’d once been? Who should have been loved and adored by his parents if his older brother hadn’t died? Or maybe they saw the truth? That there was nothing in him to love?
The cold wound through him, a creeping frost tugging at the edges of his existence, wanting to pull him apart, so he stared hard at her, stared into her topaz-gold eyes, feeling reality harden around him, anchoring him.
‘Dad didn’t leave me an inheritance,’ Achilles said. ‘He left me a final test. He knew I would never marry and settle down, never have a son. That’s what he wanted for Ulysses, not me. This was his way of denying me, because he always denied me.’ Achilles gritted his teeth. ‘Did you know that you were intended for Ulysses? That’s why I chose you, Willow. It wasn’t because you were intended for me. You were intended for my brother all along.’
CHAPTER NINE
CLEARLY ACHILLES HAD said it expecting some kind of response, though what kind of response he thought he would get, she didn’t know.
It didn’t matter. He’d chosen her initially because of that agreement between her father and his, and it was that agreement that was important, not for whom she’d originally been intended. Could he even say she’d been intended for Ulysses when she hadn’t even been born?
So she only lifted a shoulder and, holding his tortured blue gaze, said, ‘So?’
Achilles laughed, a cracked sound devoid of humour. ‘So? That’s all you have to say?’ His face had that taut look to it again, anger burning in his eyes, but now she knew what lay beneath that anger. A raw and agonising wound.
Just as she herself had been rejected by her father, he was a boy who’d never been accepted for himself. Who’d been brought into this world to take someone else’s place and then had been rejected because he wasn’t that person and could never be that person.
A boy who’d been hurt and hurt deeply by the people who were supposed to have loved him. She could see the pain that caused, it was there in his eyes, though he tried to cover it with rage. He’d tried to be what they wanted and then, when that hadn’t worked, he’d tried to be himself, and that hadn’t worked either.
It was all such a terrible situation. His parents had clearly been grief-stricken and had never managed to move past the death of their oldest son, and her heart hurt for them. Yet grief could make people selfish—her father, for example—and it seemed as if it had made Achilles’ parents selfish too. And that angered Willow.
They’d had a caring little boy right in front of them. A little boy who only wanted to love them, to heal them, and yet they’d been too mired in grief to notice.
So they’d ignored him.
It hurt her. It caused her actual, physical pain. Because she knew what it was to be ignored by the only people who were supposed to accept you without question. Who were supposed to love you unreservedly. To know that the person that you were wasn’t acceptable and that trying to be someone else was your only option.
Her father hadn’t much liked the child she was, it was true, but at least he hadn’t shut her out as completely as Ac
hilles’ parents had. At least he’d acknowledged her existence.
There was a lump in her throat that got worse and worse as Achilles stared at her. And what he was expecting her to do at this news, she didn’t know. Perhaps show disgust that he’d married her? That he’d taken his brother’s intended? Tell him that she’d rather have married his brother?
‘What do you want me to say?’ She fought to keep her voice level. She could feel the tension in his muscles beneath her hands; he’d relaxed as he’d told her about his parents, but now he’d tensed again.
‘Aren’t you appalled at my temerity?’ His deep, rich voice had a sharp edge to it, a bitterness that cut like a knife. ‘Disgusted by how I deceived you?’
‘You didn’t deceive me. Perhaps if I’d ever met your brother I might think differently, but I never met him. And I have no feelings about him whatsoever.’
‘What a pity.’ The words took on a serrated edge. ‘You would have loved him. I hear he was a god among men.’
She took a breath, staring at the anger in his eyes, hearing the bitter note in his voice. And with a sudden lurch, she realised something: it wasn’t only his parents who hadn’t let go of Ulysses. Achilles hadn’t either.
Because what was all of this but sibling rivalry? Wanting his dead brother’s intended wife. Wanting his house. His inheritance. Wanting the love that should have been his and that had been denied him.
Her heart squeezed tight in her chest and before she could stop herself she said, ‘Let him go, Achilles.’
He went very still and she felt the shift in his body, the tension becoming taut as a wound spring. His fingers had gone white around the stem of his glass, the way they’d gone white around the door handle not moments before. His blue eyes burned like a gas flame, staring at her as if he’d never seen her before in his life.
‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.
‘I mean, your brother is gone. You don’t need to compete with him.’
His expression hardened. ‘I’m not—’
‘You are,’ she cut him off quietly. ‘You’re so angry with him, so bitter. You want everything that should have been his, and I get it. I understand why. He took your parents away from you and that must have been awful.’
He said nothing, his face set in forbidding lines.
‘But he’s dead, Achilles,’ she went on gently. ‘He was just a boy when he died. And it’s not his fault that your parents couldn’t see past their grief. It’s not your fault either. You deserved better.’
He was so tense, his whole body rigid. ‘I didn’t get it though, did I?’ he bit out.
She slid her hands wide on his thighs, pressing her fingers into the hard muscle beneath the wool of his suit trousers. ‘No, and you should have. But like I said, it’s not your fault you didn’t get it, and it’s not Ulysses’ fault either. Your parents couldn’t see what was staring them right in the face.’ She took a soft breath, holding his gaze with hers. ‘But I can see. You’re an amazing man. You have the most incredible mind and I like the way you take things seriously, no matter how silly they are. You’re quiet and contemplative, and you’re interested in what people have to say. You’re very caring too, though I think you’d prefer it if people didn’t know that. But I know that. How can I not? When you’ve done nothing but care for me since we left for Greece?’
He said nothing, the look on his face intense, a muscle in his jaw leaping.
‘I’m sorry your parents couldn’t see those things,’ she went on, her voice getting huskier. ‘I’m sorry they couldn’t appreciate what they had in you and it’s not fair that they didn’t. But...you’re not Ulysses, Achilles. And you shouldn’t try to be. You have a life and you need to live it for yourself, not to spite him or your parents.’
His expression remained taut. ‘You think it’s that easy? To just...let go of years of neglect?’
‘No, of course not. And I’m a fine one to talk, considering my own childhood. But we both have had people in our lives who haven’t moved on from the past, and we know what the consequences of that are.’ Her hands closed on his thighs, gripping him hard. ‘Don’t you want to do things differently? Especially if we have a child?’
He stared at her for a long, endless moment and something passed between them, though she couldn’t have said what it was. Then he put the wine down abruptly, leaned forward and hauled her up and into his arms.
She didn’t resist him, just as she didn’t resist when he shoved his fingers into her hair and pulled her mouth down on his, kissing her hard and deep, as if he had a fever and she was the only medicine that would help him.
A kiss that was desperate and demanded an answer, and so she gave it.
She leaned into him, into the hard muscularity of his body, wanting to give him what she could, because she could sense the wide, deep, unending hunger of him.
The hunger for a connection he’d been denied.
He wanted someone, she could sense that. Someone who would accept him, who wouldn’t ignore him. Who wouldn’t neglect him. Someone who would appreciate him not for empty charm and a handsome face, but for who he was underneath that.
She could be that person for him. She wanted to be that person.
She was his wife after all, so who better?
His mouth was hot and hungry and he was kissing her as if he was dying, and all she wanted to do was to save him. So when he bunched up her dress she helped him, shrugging out of it and her underwear too, so she was sitting astride him naked. Then he undid his belt and the zip of his trousers, and she reached for him, taking him hot and hard and smooth in her hands.
‘I want you,’ he growled against her mouth. ‘Put me inside you. Now.’
She shifted, lifting her hips, guiding him to her, feeling him push inside at the same time as she flexed, and they both shuddered with the pleasure of it as he slid deep inside her.
Then they both were still.
His gaze was blue and dark, depthless as the sea. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered roughly. ‘Keep looking at me, Diana.’
And she did, losing herself in his gaze as he began to move, at first slow and gradual, then becoming harder, faster. His hands settled on her hips, gripping her tight, the look on his face intense and hungry, looking at her as if she was his last chance of rescue.
She lifted her hands and cupped his face, kept looking into those depthless blue eyes, losing herself in the rising pleasure and letting him see exactly how it affected her. Letting him see how he affected her. And his movements become more insistent, more desperate.
But she didn’t look away, and when he slipped a hand between her thighs and stroked her, and the orgasm swelled around her, she let him see her get swept away. And she called his name and felt it when the pleasure came for him too.
Willow lay against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her long, lithe thighs on either side of his, her soft breasts pressing against his chest. Her hair was a wild storm over her shoulders, the silk of it warm against his fingers. He still had one hand buried in the soft, silky skeins.
The orgasm had felt as if someone had taken a cricket bat to his head, making it ring, and he couldn’t have moved if his life depended on it. But that didn’t seem to matter. She’d looked down into his eyes and he’d felt more real with every thrust of his hips. With every gasp she gave and shudder that shook her lovely body. She’d done exactly what he’d said and hadn’t looked away, and it felt as if she’d called him into being.
And now that strange, dissipating feeling at the edges of him had gone.
He felt real and solid and warm and lax. The agitation had gone, as if some poison had been drained out of him and the hollow that had been left in its absence had been filled up with the feel of Willow’s body gripping his, her heat and her scent, the sound of his name in her smoky, sexy voice.
Let him go, Achilles...
&nb
sp; His hand tightened in her hair. She was right, of course. She was right about all of it, he could see that now, and perhaps part of him had known all along. That in being so obsessed with having everything Ulysses should have had, he’d kept his brother alive. Just as his parents had in many ways.
But his brother wasn’t alive. He was gone. And his only crimes were to have been born before Achilles and then to die before him too.
Theos, so much anger over one dead boy. A boy he might even have liked if he’d met him.
And as for his parents, well, maybe she was right. Maybe the fault lay with them and their refusal to give up their grief, rather than a failing in himself.
It was something he’d never know for certain though, since they, like his brother, were dead. All he had left of them was a name and a title, and a house that wasn’t even his.
Not yet.
No, not yet. But he would have it. And maybe once he did, he could finally let go.
Achilles ran a hand down Willow’s back in a long stroke, her skin damp and warm, and she shivered. Generous, warm woman. No, there would be no separate lives for either of them. She would sleep with him every night, here in this bed, because she was his now, completely and utterly. And if she wasn’t pregnant now, she soon would be. He’d make sure of it.
Gathering her in his arms, he left the chair and moved over to the bed.
Then he laid her down on the mattress and stripped off his clothes and claimed her all over again.
CHAPTER TEN
WILLOW LEANED AGAINST the bathroom vanity and took a slow, deep breath. The pregnancy-test kit sat on the smooth marble, the pink lines standing out neon bright on the white strip.
Pregnant. She was pregnant.
She shouldn’t feel so shocked, not given how seriously Achilles had taken the task of conception over the past month, and she definitely shouldn’t feel a spiralling sense of panic either, not given how she’d known a child was required when she’d signed his contract all those weeks ago.
The World's Most Notorious Greek (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 14
